


The Perfect Kill

by mortified_flesh



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Espionage, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Romance, Team Dynamics, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26012557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortified_flesh/pseuds/mortified_flesh
Summary: A period of relative peace and prosperity for Amestris abruptly ends when a mysterious terrorist carries out a series of bombings, one of which kills a high-ranking military officer. Vato Falman is given the unenviable task of eliminating the mad bomber, who may not be "mad" at all, and his investigation turns into a race against time as the bomber's demands are not met. Thankfully, he has some old friends and allies he can rely on to help him pull off the impossible - and maybe the unsavory.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Autumn's Catalyst

Nothing indicated more clearly the slow, subtle passage of time than the changing of the seasons, which always triggered Vato Falman’s many memories of years past. Today was the first day since winter’s end that he’d worn a coat to work, when the gentle breeze coming off the northern hills was suddenly less gentle, heralding autumn’s arrival. He remembered lingering in his bedroom that morning, trying to decide whether to wear his new trench coat, the one Irene had bought him a week ago. It was a nice coat, double-breasted, mid-length, not particularly stylish, but it was relatively warm and comfortable, and he’d needed a nice coat. Last week had been their fourth anniversary, and he found it a bit of an odd gift for a wife to buy her husband of four years. But she was a practical sort of gal. Nothing wrong with that.

Falman himself was a practical man, not flashy or ostentatious. He dressed in drab, well-worn clothes because he preferred that people not pay attention to him. He owned a car, but walked to work because the Office was located only five blocks from his house. The car was a sedan that he drove only once a week or so, usually on Sunday, mostly so it didn’t sit out front and rust. And walking to and from work was good exercise, he figured. He’d been offered a bodyguard when he first took the job, but had declined on the basis of wanting to avoid attracting attention. It wasn’t that it would’ve been inappropriate for his position, but if he had a bodyguard, then walking would be out of the question.

He was done work a little after five o’ clock and walking down the street by a quarter after. It was almost a straight shot from the Office to his house, but he had to turn right after three blocks. Fifteen minutes later he could see his car parked in front of his house, right where he left it. Things were slow at the Office, he thought, so maybe he would take it out soon. It was Friday, and he’d need to go grocery shopping soon. A Sunday drive seemed like a good idea.

With that in mind, he walked up the front steps and went fishing for his keys. They were in his coat pocket, right side. He found them quickly and easily enough, unlocked the deadbolt, and let himself in.

He set his briefcase down and turned on the radio in the front room while checking his mail. There was nothing that demanded his immediate attention. He dropped the small stack of envelopes on the kitchen table and went back to the front room. Then he plopped down in an armchair that had been in his family for ages. It had once been his father’s, and after his parents passed it had gone into storage. It was old and almost ratty-looking, the upholstery had a couple small tears, but it was deceptively comfortable, and practical as he was, Falman liked comfort. Especially after being posted in the north for so long.

Work might be slow, but there was still been plenty to do, most of it pretty boring, and today had been a long day. Falman relaxed and listened to the tunes for twenty, twenty-five minutes, not bothering to take off his coat or shoes. He did his best not to fall asleep, but all it took was a few minutes of “resting his eyes,” and he was slowly drifting off.

The evening news broadcast began at six o’ clock sharp. Something about the announcer’s tone disturbed his rest, but it wasn’t until he actually heard the words that his eyes opened wide with surprise.

“Good evening, listeners. This is Radio Central, beginning our evening broadcast with a special news bulletin. We have just learned that a bomb went off at a train station outside East City, between there and the capital. This happened only twenty minutes ago, at approximately 5:40 p.m. So far details are sparse, so we are going to limit our reporting to the following: the military police have not released a death toll, but many have been injured. We are also certain that one of the trains at the station had been carrying the newly appointed commander of the military’s eastern forces. It is currently unknown whether or not that officer was one of the casualties. Rest assured, listeners, as soon as we know more, so will you.”

Falman sighed heavily. As if on cue, the phone in the kitchen started to ring. He trudged to it and picked up the handset. “Hello?”

“Good evening, this is the Central Command Exchange for Mr. Vato Falman.”

“That’s me.”

“Please hold for the prime minister, Mr. Falman.”

As always, Falman thought, his timing was impeccable.

“Falman, you there?” came the terse greeting.

“I’m here, sir.”

“Have you heard?”

“As a matter of fact, I was just listening to the radio.”

“I need you at the Citadel. How quickly can you get here?”

Falman thought it over. “I just got home maybe five minutes ago. Traffic might still be backed up.”

“Should I send a car for you?”

If he did, Falman would never hear the end of it. “No, that’s all right. It would take just as long. I’ll leave now, be there in twenty.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure the guards are expecting you.”

With that, Falman rang off. It was understood that nobody was to hang up on the prime minister, but as with every rule, there were exceptions. The two of them had worked together for some time, and beside that, there was nothing more to say. He went to the front room and looked for his keys for a good minute before realizing they were still in his coat pocket. It was just as well he never took off his coat. His long day was about to turn into a long night.

* * *

Knowing the way as well as he did, Falman had closely guessed how long it would take him to drive to Central Command, known around the capital as "the Citadel." In fact, he’d worked in a little fudge time. He arrived exactly seventeen minutes after leaving his house, and the guards had indeed been told to expect him. The seat of the Amestrian government was guarded by a regiment of elite troops. Its soldiers were handpicked by commanders and given additional training, completion of which earned them the right to wear a blue beret. Their professionalism and thoroughness were beyond question, but today their checks of Falman’s person and effects were cursory. Nobody wanted to hold up the prime minister’s guest.

They let him through relatively quickly. Bypassing the inner wall, Falman remembered holding King Bradley at gunpoint and quaking with fear the whole time. He hadn’t carried a gun as part of his regular duties and responsibilities since leaving the military. Good thing, too. He wasn’t much of a shootist.

In the residence, the wing of Central Command where the fuhrer once lived (and the prime minister now did), Roy Mustang was waiting for him.

“Damn. You were right on the money. Almost twenty minutes exactly,” he said.

“I try, sir.”

“Have a seat.”

They were seated across a low table with a coffee service. Falman generally avoided caffeine after hours, but he was afraid he’d need the boost, so fixed himself a cup, mixing in a little cream and sugar. Black coffee tasted like misery in a cup.

Mustang wasn’t one for wasting time, especially not since his ascendance. “General Halcrow is dead.” He was referring to the commander of the Eastern Army. “I was told ten minutes ago. I ordered the Military Police to keep quiet, but it won’t stay secret for long. He had a family, you know. I wanted to talk to you before it goes public, though.”

Falman’s face was impassive. “Sure.”

“This is the third in less than a month.”

“You’re right.” Falman thought back. Two explosions had preceded this one. The first had been three weeks ago, the second a week and a half, give or take a day. A military supply depot in the south and a barracks building in the east had been blown up. In the latter case, the building itself actually survived; the source of the explosion was later pinpointed outside the gate. Nobody had died in either. In fact, in the case of the former, nobody had even been hurt, though millions of cens’ worth of materiel, including weapons and equipment, had been destroyed. There were several injuries at the barracks, but nothing too severe. Mostly burns and shrapnel scrapes. One soldier had lost an eye, but was expected to make a full recovery otherwise.

The explosion at the train station was the first to result in an actual fatality, and a general at that.

Mustang asked, “What’s your take?”

“It won’t be a proper assessment,” Falman cautioned.

“I didn’t ask for a proper assessment. You’re one of my most trusted advisors, Falman. I want your opinion.”

They knew each other well enough to know each other’s idiosyncrasies, which was how Mustang knew the long pause that followed wasn’t an indication of Falmna’s cluelessness. Far from it. Falman was one of the few people Mustang knew who was smart enough to think before speaking. His trusted advisor was quiet for several seconds, staring at his cup of coffee and looking very pensive. Finally he said, “They’re connected, I’m relatively certain.”

“What convinced you?”

“The timing. Things have been good recently. Peaceful. There hasn’t been much violence. Nothing politically motivated, anyway.”

“You think this is politically motivated?”

Falman nodded slowly. “Maybe not, but most likely, I’d say. All three explosions struck military targets. If it’s not the work of terrorists, then foreign saboteurs. I’m inclined to say it’s terrorists, though.”

“One man or a group?”

“I doubt one man could pull something like this off single-handedly, but beyond that, I can’t say. I don’t know enough to guess.”

“What about this explosion, the third one? The train station wasn’t a military target.”

“If it’s the one I’m thinking of, true. But look who was killed. There’s nothing there worth blowing up other than a high-ranking officer like General Halcrow. I’m willing to bet he was the target, which means this explosion follows the pattern established by the first two.”

“So,” Mustang mumbled, “it’s terrorists.”

“In my _opinion_ , sir, yes.”

“That’s not a _proper assessment_ , is it?”

Half-smirking, Falman shook his head. “No, sir.”

“I will need one, though.”

“Consider it done. I can have it on your desk by tomorrow. Sunday at the latest.”

Mustang hand-waved the assurance. “No. I want you and your people to take your time. There’s no reason to rush. Yet. Have it ready Monday morning.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Another pause followed, neither of them speaking. They sat and sipped coffee for a little while, until Mustang cleared his throat to break the silence. “As with the first two explosions, the Military Police are running the official investigation. This one will be all the more thorough given Halcrow’s death. I’m with you. This smacks like assassination. Which leaves only one course of action.”

Falman thought he knew where Mustang was going, but kept his mouth shut.

“I said the Military Police will handle the official investigation, but I want the Office investigating as well. You and your people will do everything you can to get to the bottom of this. I want to know who’s behind these bombings. And then . . . well, I think we’ll have to fight fire with fire.”

The significance of Mustang’s use of the word “fire” was not lost on Falman. “I think I understand, sir.”

“If the bomber’s target was, in fact, General Halcrow, meaning this was an assassination,” Mustang started, “then our response has to be swift and decisive. And the course of action I’d suggest is a course of action I can’t suggest.”

_There you have it,_ Falman thought. The order was given, though the word itself had been used carefully, in a circuitous way. The meaning behind it was clear. And Falman agreed, though he would’ve hesitated admitting it. Whoever was out there, blowing things up right and left was simply too dangerous to be left running amok. This was a situation that required drastic measures. Or one very drastic measure in particular. Falman didn’t like it, but he was a loyal soldier, despite having hung up his uniform a while back. He was also a patriotic Amestrian, despite his knowledge of his country’s secret history. By and large, he believed Amestrians were good people. He’d met a lot of them in his life and couldn’t stomach the idea of innocents dying at the hands of this bomber. Sure, whoever he (or she) was seemed to be going after the military, but collateral damage was a matter of time with explosives in the hands of terrorists. No, some dangers were simply unacceptable.

Considering Mustang’s way with words, it was no surprise when he figured out how to make it sound appropriate. “It goes without saying that the individual or group responsible for these bombings must be _rendered harmless_ , and sooner rather than later.”

“I’ll have everyone at the Office working on it day and night, sir.”

“Very good, Mr. Falman.”

They sat around and discussed other issues for a bit. There were some less pressing matters Mustang wanted him to weigh in on and had been putting off until a meeting could be arranged, but there was no time like the present. Falman gave his thoughts with characteristic directness. His counsel was thoughtful and carefully considered. Mustang listened to what his good friend and subordinate had to say. His knowledge was broad and seemingly all-encompassing.

Finally Falman was dismissed, and as he got up to leave, Mustang said with a smile, “Give my regards to the team. I really miss working with them.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“I’d reassign everyone here in a heartbeat if I didn’t think it’d be a waste of their talents.”

“They’re doing well, and they’re content to serve their country in whatever capacity you or the military deem necessary.”

“Of course.”

That evening Falman left the Citadel with a new mission. He was no longer a military man, and the Office was no military formation or organization, but the mission would be completed, no matter what it took or what it required of those assigned to do so. He and his colleagues were good at what they did. The prime minister could rest assured.

A lot had changed since the days of so-called “Team Mustang,” the prime minister's motley crew of skilled subordinates. Many of their friends and allies had gone their separate ways. Falman had mentioned the relative peace and prosperity the country was enjoying - or had been enjoying. Some things, though, never changed. This was one: no matter how desperate the situation, no matter how the odds were stacked against them, Mustang could rely on Falman and his teammates to support him. Him being prime minister instead of just another colonel made no difference. Whatever the endeavor, success might not be guaranteed, but failure was not an option.


	2. Political Bloodletting

“So we’re scalphunters now, is that it?”

Falman winced. He wouldn’t have put it like that for a number of reasons, not least because “scalping” had been an Ishvalan practice throughout the previous century. A vicious one. But was it really that far from the truth? If they went ahead with the mission, would they really be any different from the bounty hunters who hunted down escaped Ishvalans after the war on behalf of the government? Falman sipped bitter coffee to hide his displeasure at the thought. Definitely a little more sugar. Maybe half a teaspoon, no more.

He answered, “I don’t know about that, but I guess I understand the comparison.”

Jean Havoc was Falman’s deputy, another military retiree before his time. Before that he’d been Mustang’s one-man cavalry, a fearless maverick always down to fight, no matter the danger. He’d been a marathon runner as a young man, easily the fastest of Falman’s teammates, meaning he could move into or out of position more quickly that anyone else. It was that much more ironic when he was crippled before the Promised Day. Alchemy had restored his ability to walk, thank goodness, but he’d never be as fast as he was back then. His limp made sure of that.

He sat against the wall, sprawled across a leather-upholstered loveseat. He’d brought his ashtray with him, which Falman thought was a little ridiculous, and currently had his third lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. They had been talking for maybe five minutes, and already the office was full of hazy smoke.

Havoc said, “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Falman agreed, adding, “but an order’s an order.”

“Did he actually say it?”

“He didn’t have to. The words he used were ‘render harmless.’ You get the idea.”

Havoc grunted. “Sure. It’s kinda outside our purview, wouldn’t you say? When the colonel signed the order and set us up, it didn’t say anything about . . . well, y’know.”

What was more peculiar? Was it Havoc’s conscious avoidance of calling it like it was, his usual MO, or him still referring to Mustang as “the colonel?” Probably not the latter, Falman decided. They all did. For some reason, “the prime minister” just seemed like too many words and didn’t roll off the tongue as easily.

“You’re forgetting the part at the end about ‘taking covert actions as necessary, at the behest of the prime minister.’ That covers a lot.”

“So what? It covers whatever he wants it to?”

“What’s the deal, Havoc? I’m kind of surprised. I never knew you to be afraid to get your hands dirty. After all, we _are_ spies.”

The slight barb visibly disturbed Havoc. He made a face, took a long drag of his cigarette, and blew smoke into the air. “It’s not that I’m afraid to get my hands dirty. It’s just that assassination is a fool’s game. All through history there are hardly any times it ever worked out well in the long run. Nine times out of ten it blows up in your face, and considering what we’re up against, I think we really want to avoid that.”

That said, they were both quiet for a while, and Falman couldn’t help smirking. Nobody would peg Havoc as much of a historian, but he was no dummy, and every once in a while he was capable of real wisdom. And he was right. Falman was a voracious reader and could recall most of what he’d read over the past couple decades. He especially loved books by philosophers, political scientists, and such, and he found himself hard pressed to think of even one time killing someone prominent had done any good. More often it screwed things up six ways from Sunday. In fact, he was about as enthusiastic about it as Havoc was, but . . .

“We have a mission, Havoc, and we have to complete it.”

“Then we gotta have a couple ground rules,” Havoc said, leaning forward to place the ashtray on the floor between his feet and tap out some ashes.

“Like what?”

Havoc held up his thumb. “First, the bastard has to deserve it, and I don’t mean by just being a bastard. He’s gotta be dangerous, a serious, existential threat to this country. It can’t be about getting even for him killing a high-ranking officer like Halcrow. And that’s the thing. Right now it hardly seems like Amestris is going to fall apart because some asshole is blowing stuff up.”

“He’s not just blowing _stuff_ up, Havoc. He’s blowing people up.”

“Which is definitely murder, but it won’t cause Amestris to stop existing and doesn’t justify hunting him down with intent to kill.”

Falman had a sip of his coffee and regretted not being able to stop by the cafe he liked on his way in, but he’d wanted to arrive early at the Office to have enough time to talk this over with Falman. The instant stuff was crap compared to his favorite freshly brewed dark roast. He thought over everything Falman had said and offered a response after a minute or so. “I think you’re underestimating how dangerous this guy really is, assuming it’s a man, of course. Consider this. He’s already demonstrated he’s an existential threat to this country’s interests and citizens. If all three bombings really are connected, then I don’t think it’s a stretch to say we can expect more. Let’s say he sets off another one. Or two or three. Collateral damage is almost always inevitable when you have explosives in the hands of terrorists. Hell, it’s not really collateral. Killing people is more or less the objective. My gut tells me we lucked out that nobody died at the supply depot or barracks, but it’s a matter of time before civilians start dying. That could cause hysteria, it could and almost certainly will cause people to lose faith in the government and everything Mustang is trying to achieve, and that’s something I really am not looking forward to.”

Havoc sighed, shrugged, and said, “Point taken. I guess you’re right.”

“If killing the bomber will prevent all that, then I’d say it’s justified. Maybe questionable from a certain perspective, but justified.”

“There’s one other rule I can think of.”

“Okay.”

Havoc held up his index finger, making two. “If we’re gonna do it, it has to count.”

“What do you mean?”

He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and immediately went digging in his pocket for another; he did his best thinking while smoking. After some seconds, he found one, lit up, and went on, “My guess is it’s a group that’s behind these bombings. Depending on how long they’ve been around, I’m surprised they were able to go without us knowing about them, but that’s beside the point. If a group is doing them, then taking out the bomber might not accomplish a damn thing. Someone else could just take his place. And who knows how many people they’ve got. There could be a third, a fourth, a fifth. Before you know it, we’re bumping off people right and left with not much to show for it, and sooner or later the public will wise up, and everyone will know what we’re up to.”

The smoke was clogging the room now, and Falman turned in his swivel chair to open the window behind him. The second he did, a fall breeze came in and jostled the blinds, but he was grateful for the fresh air, which helped _him_ think. Havoc was onto something. A group was, by definition, more than one, and assassination usually involved the targeted killing of an individual. Terrorists were cunning enemies. Often their leaders were more like figureheads, easily replaced. Their chains of command, as they were, were often less rigid than the military’s, more fluid, adaptable to the circumstances. Rarely was there any guarantee that taking out one or another would really put the nail in their coffin.

“I’m inclined to agree with you that it’s probably a group, and I said as much to the colonel,” Falman said, thinking, _Damn. I did it too. Some things really do never change. I guess he’ll always be our colonel._

Havoc nodded. “Right, and if it’s not gonna do the job, why risk it?”

“We need more information.”

“You can say that again.”

Mustang had asked for an assessment to be on his desk by Monday. The good news was Falman had remembered and rang Amestris’s best bookworm first thing in the morning to come help out. His eyes drifted upward to the clock over his office door. It was almost eight-thirty, and her apartment was thirty minutes away, give or take. She ought to be showing up soon. He and Havoc took a break. Havoc went down the hall to wait for her.

Not three minutes later he came back with the Office’s lead analyst in tow.

Sheska was a mousy girl with big, dark eyes hidden behind a pair of half-rimmed specs, which were massive and not very flattering. But for that, she was really kind of pretty, young and energetic, and by far one of the smartest, most well-organized, and articulate people Falman knew. She was also a lightning typist, able to fire off clear, concise reports faster than a printer. These were the reasons Falman had decided, almost immediately upon learning that Mustang was establishing the Office and putting him in charge of it, to bring her aboard to lead his analytical staff. He knew she’d worked for Maes Hughes, a fine officer and even better friend of the team’s from back in the day, and Hughes regarded her well. That was the highest praise anyone could ask for. “Give me Sheska,” he’d said to Mustang the day after the order was signed.

It’d been the right call. Though she struggled in a leadership role, she was the only person Falman knew of with a memory that could rival his own. She could call to mind facts and figures so minute anyone else would wonder how she did it, and that had led to an efficiency in her analytical process he doubted could’ve been had elsewise.

“I’m sorry I took so long getting here, Mr. Falman!” she said the second she came into his office. “I got ready to leave just as soon as you called me at home, but then I got distracted passing a newsstand on the way over. See, one of the papers had an article on the prime minister’s call for general elections on the front page. I stopped for just a minute to take a peek, and before I knew it, I’d read half the paper, and the man who runs the stand was yelling at me that it wasn’t a library, and if I was going to stand there like a goof, I’d have to pay for it, and I didn’t have any money on me because I’d forgotten my purse at home.”

“Relax, Sheska,” Falman said, more impressed that she’d managed to read half a newspaper in mere minutes than anything. “It’s Saturday. I’m just glad you were able to come in on such short notice.”

“Oh, it’s nothing! Anything I can do to help!”

Havoc grinned. “Always eager. That’s why we like you, Sheska.”

She just about blushed at that remark.

“You’re aware of the recent bombings,” Falman started. “The prime minister and I met yesterday, and we agree the three of them are most likely connected. Whether it’s an individual or a group that’s responsible, we’re not sure. Havoc and I were just discussing it, and he’s not sure either, though we’re all leaning toward it being a group. No matter. The prime minister wants an assessment, and so do I. Call in as many of your analysts as you can and start working on an all-source report.”

Sheska nodded. “How comprehensive?”

“As much as you can make it. The prime minister wants it by Monday. I know two days isn’t much time, but I believe in you.”

“We don’t have much information right now. It’d be really helpful if we could go over the Military Police case files.”

“I’ll make some calls. You’ll have access to them by noon. If you have any problems with that, tell me, and I’ll straighten them out.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sheska smiled and brightened up. “I’ll start calling people right away. But I’ll probably have to ruin a few weekends, and they probably won’t be happy with me.”

Havoc patted her shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. Everyone who works here knew what they were in for when they took the job.”

* * *

Reaching an unspoken consensus before she walked in, Falman and Havoc silently agreed that Sheska didn’t need to know the real reason they wanted her report so quickly. It was true Mustang had requested it, but they were interested in finding out more about the bombings to finally decide on the assassination – to proceed or not, how to approach such a difficult and delicate challenge, how to complete their secret mission. Falman was on Havoc’s side. He wanted to know for sure that the bomber _needed_ to die and that his death would definitely prevent more bombings. If those issues couldn’t be settled, then Falman would have to go back to the Citadel and tell Mustang they couldn’t do it after all.

And, setting all that aside, they had to figure out who the bastard was before doing anything. Hopefully Sheska’s report would offer insight into identifying him.

“Are you on board?” Falman asked afterward.

Thinking it over one last time, Havoc nodded. “Yeah. If we can establish that killing this bastard will be worth it in the end, I’m down. And I think Breda would agree. We’ll obviously need him.”

“No doubt.”

“Beyond that, I’d keep this hush-hush. Operational security and whatnot. Are we starting a file?”

“I don’t think so. We’d best keep the paper trail restricted to Sheska’s report.”

“Damn, did you ever think we’d wind up talking about this kind of thing when Mustang put you in charge?”

“No, not really. I guess I thought we’d just be doing spy stuff. Collection, processing, analysis. I can’t really say I’m surprised, though. That covert action clause was fairly open to interpretation, and Amestris does have its fair share of enemies. Some of them are too dangerous to be left alive.”

“Some would say it’s a slippery slope.”

Maybe it was. Falman shrugged. “You mentioned scalphunters earlier. They used to hunt Ishvalan refugees. You don’t think . . . ”

Havoc shook his head. “I really, really hope not.”

* * *

Falman was a “lead from the front” kind of officer, despite no longer being an officer, but there really wasn’t a lot for him to do at the Office. He spent close to three hours arguing on the phone with an MP colonel who insisted over and over again that he “didn’t take orders from civilians,” despite Falman repeatedly telling him he had the grade of simulated colonel and answered directly to the prime minister. By the end of the conversation, though, he’d managed to convince the MP colonel to send over carbons of their case files by the end of the day. (Without having to actually call the Central Command Exchange and ask Mustang to set him straight, which was the real victory.) Once that was taken care of, there wasn’t much for him to do, so Havoc sent him home with a promise. “I’ll stick around and help Sheska if she needs it. Get out of here and relax for a change. I’ll call you if something develops, boss.”

Afternoon came, and Falman let himself into his house. There was something on his mind, something floating around since his first conversation with Havoc. He went through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs to the basement, where two massive bookcases stood against the far wall. He perused the spines until he found what he was looking for, an old treatise written by a now-retired general, published by the military academy press around the turn of the century. He took the single volume with him and went back upstairs, plopping down in the same armchair he had the day before. Then he started reading.

The binding was stiff and cracked when he opened it. The pages were worn. This one was apparently a first edition and had been among the first hundred copies printed, which would make it about twenty-four years old. He’d bought it at a used bookstore when he and his teammates had been assigned to East City, but never read it. Well, now was as good a time as any. The title: _On Political Bloodletting_.

It talked about a number of past conflicts in Amestris’s history and how assassination had factored in. The Southern Province had seen a lot of it after the takeover of Fotset and the surrounding area. Those people, Aerugonians furious at having been subjugated by the militaristic Amestrians, engaged in a long campaign of killing, targeting every Amestrian officer they could get at with weapons from knives to hand grenades. The goal had been to make the cost of the occupation intolerable by way of a subtle, but brutal insurgency mostly kept to the shadows. And it would’ve worked if not for Amestris’s overwhelming military superiority. There hadn’t been much popular support for the annexation in the first place, and fifteen-plus funerals for as many officers in a month’s time had been too much for some.

Falman knew the truth. _That conflict, like so many others in this country’s history, really had nothing to do with national security. It was all the Homunculi’s doing, all aimed laying the groundwork for the Promised Day._

There was even a chapter in the book covering how the Xingese employed assassination as a tool of statecraft, but what Falman noticed most of all was a repeated maxim. The author insisted over and over that assassination, if resorted to, could only be acceptable if it was an act of self-preservation.

Like the cutting off of a diseased limb to preserve the body. Falman thought of the alchemical principle of equivalent exchange. Something gained for something lost. Safety for taking a life.


	3. Sunday Drive

Try as he might, Falman couldn’t stay home while his people toiled. He tried reading more _On Political Bloodletting_ , studying the exploits of Aerugonian and Xingese assassins, but by noon was totally unable to stay focused. The urge to pop in and see what the others were up to was too strong, so he threw on his coat and headed out the door. He stopped by his favorite café on the way, thinking that maybe a little fresh air and a snack would help him forget about the bombings, but no such luck. He sat outside for a while, munching on a scone, mulling over the situation.

The Office was buzzing with activity. Falman found out the MPs had taken their time sending over the carbons of the case files. They hadn’t shown up until eight o’ clock the previous night, and Sheska had stayed over, sleeping under her desk from four to eight in the morning just to get an early start that morning. She and her analysts were deep into a discussion of the contents of the files. Falman listened in to check their progress, not that he had any doubt that they were working as hard as they could. Sheska especially continued to impress him with her work ethic. She was absentminded at times, but dedicated to putting in a hundred and ten percent. She could crunch data at breakneck speeds, and her analysts occasionally had trouble keeping up with her. At the moment, they were busy comparing details from the first and second bombings, the two that hadn’t resulted in any fatalities. She was rapidly jotting down every half-useful observation in her notes, which would prove helpful when the time came to compile the final draft of their report.

Down the hall, in a smaller office adjacent to Falman’s own, Havoc was reclining in his swivel chair, with his feet up on the desk. He was on the phone with Breda, who’d been in East City since the previous week and was now putting the Office’s assets in the Eastern Province to use collecting any and all intelligence he could on the bombings, with a special focus on the most recent.

In all, little had changed since yesterday. Falman was the head honcho, but there wasn’t much for him to do. He had talented people working for him, and he had to let them do their jobs. But staying hands-off was hard. He’d never had a command of his own when he was in the military. Letting everyone else work their asses off while he sat around felt like slacking off. It felt like he was abusing his position and authority, though he knew better.

“Listen, you’re the boss now,” Havoc had told him their first week of working together after the Office’s formation. “Remember what it was like working for the colonel? He always had our backs, but his top priority was making sure we had enough room to do our jobs. Other than that, he hardly did much of anything. That’s you now. Hell, you’ve even got the pay grade for it; running this outfit makes you a _simulated_ colonel.”

There’d been some confusion about Havoc being made the Office’s second-in-charge, what with him having outranked Falman most of the time they’d been in the military. The truth was, however, Mustang knew Falman was the best intelligence officer out of all his old subordinates, and so did his teammates. That included Havoc, who’d never cared much about rank in the first place. When he’d received the offer to come aboard as Falman’s deputy, he said, “Sounds like a good time. Count me in. It’s about time we put the team together again.”

They had _almost_ done exactly that. Falman and Havoc were the first to find out about the Office. Breda was brought in not long after. The idea had been to hire Kain Fuery as well, their young teammate from back in the day, who would’ve overseen the Office’s communications, but they found out he was on his second semester of getting a university degree. Falman took it in stride and promised him he’d have a job waiting for him when he was done – if he wanted it.

Then there was the one they all thought of as Mustang’s queen, but she had transferred out of the prime minister’s staff when he was still just a general, and no one was sure where she’d gone off to. Falman had really wanted her to join them.

He took the carbons the MPs dropped off the night before and settled in to read through them. He wanted to familiarize himself with the contents, so for four hours he sat at his desk and read. Most of his job was reading, not that he was complaining.

There were supposed to be photos of the bombing scenes attached to the files, but they weren’t there. He assumed they were kept with the originals. There were sections describing the scenes with as much detail as possible, but there was no substitute for visual aids. A picture was worth a thousand words, after all.

Four hours of poring over the carbons left him with more questions than answers. He tried to picture what each location had looked like before and after the bombs went off, but found himself unable. A newspaper article after the second bombing, the one at the barracks, had been accompanied by a black and white photo, but had been small and poor in quality. In other words, not very helpful for their purposes. The devil was always in the details, and if they were going to kill this particular devil, they needed to see the bombings for what they were, for all their destruction. They needed clarity.

And Falman had no doubt there would be another bombing. Whatever they did, they needed to move quickly.

* * *

Rare had been the times in Falman’s military career when he was able to seize the initiative. His role had always been intelligence, not infantry. He didn’t rush into battle and pursue the enemy from the front line. He stayed in the rear as much as possible, collected intel, analyzed, and provided estimates on the strength and disposition of the opposing force. His objective was always giving his superiors enough information to wage war successfully. Victory was impossible to achieve if all you ever did was go in blind and hope for the best. Sure, overwhelming numbers could stack the odds in your favor, but history was full of stories of smaller forces defeating larger ones with cunning and guile.

This time, the odds were stacked against him. The Office had a difficult task, thanks to the lack of solid intel. The MPs were investigating the bombings vigorously. As yet, however, there was nothing indicating what they were up against. Falman had to seize the initiative.

Whoever was behind the bombings was probably planning another one already.

He walked back to his house, got in his car, and drove eastward, following his impulse. His gut was telling him what to do. It struck him as somewhat reckless, but that wasn’t about to stop him. His sedan covered fifty miles in just over an hour. It was pushing six o’ clock when he pulled up a little ways from the train station.

There were still a couple drab-painted MP cars parked on the sidewalk in front of the entrance. Wooden A-frame barricades blocked off the street so no one could drive up. There was a very bored-looking MP, probably an enlisted man, standing guard. This was still a crime scene, Falman knew. They had to keep it locked down, otherwise all the evidence gathered so far (and any yet to be discovered) could be called into question. Of course, if the Office was successful in its endeavor, there would be no trial.

He wanted to have a look around, but going up to the guard and demanding to be let past was out of the question. The whole point of the Office being a civilian organization was discretion. Few knew it existed, and Falman wanted to keep it that way.

That left him with only one option. The train station served a town with a population of maybe three to five thousand. It was shut down since the bombing, meaning no passengers coming and coming. The street was deserted when Falman first pulled up, so he went and parked around the corner. Once on foot, he walked a couple blocks down and cut through an alleyway and an empty lot. The station was on the edge of town. He was able to make his way around the Military Police perimeter, stomping through a grassy field, and reach a shoulder-high fence separating the tracks and the field. He climbed over and followed the tracks toward the station. It was twilight, and there were spotlights set up around the platform to illuminate the scene for investigators that had long since gone. Two days after the bombing, there wasn’t much to see.

Falman crept along until he had a look at the rest of the platform. The scene itself was largely contained to a lone train car that workers had detached from its locomotive and trailing cars. He knew from the case file that the Military Police investigators had determined the source of the explosion had been inside the car, in General Halcrow’s own compartment. How that could be, no one was entirely sure. There had been a fan-shaped span of debris across the platform from the source, but most of it had already been cleared away, bits and pieces being taken to a lab for scientists to sift through and evaluate. Maybe there was a clue there. There was still a charred, blackened hole in the side of the train car where Halcrow’s compartment had once been. Everything inside had been obliterated – including the general.

There hadn’t been much damage to the station, though, and few injuries other than a couple soldiers on board. Both had lacerations from shrapnel, and one suffered a ruptured eardrum from being too close to the blast. A handful of others on the platform had cuts and scrapes, mostly superficial. All of the injured were listed in the case file by name, grade, and serial number. Also listed were their assignments.

It suddenly occurred to Falman who hadn’t shown up on that list. Halcrow’s adjutant. How had he managed to escape the blast? Most senior officers and their adjutants worked closely together. Falman could think of one example off the top of his head.

Yes, seeing the scene with his own eyes were far better than glancing at pictures in an office in Central. He could imagine what this place had looked like the moment the device had detonated. Probably bustling with soldiers, both officers and enlisted . . .

Wait a minute.

Soldiers and civilians regularly rode aboard the same trains, even flag officers like Halcrow. However, platforms were almost always restricted to military personnel while the passenger cars carrying them were boarding. It was simple measure done for security purposes. _Done to prevent just this sort of occurrence_ , Falman thought ruefully. It clearly hadn’t worked this time. Why? The MPs were convinced the device had been inside Halcrow’s compartment when it detonated. There was little left of the device itself and no residue from the explosive. That could indicate the device was at least semi-sophisticated in nature, which was maybe a clue in itself, but more importantly . . . if the bomb had been in Halcrow’s compartment, _how_ had it gotten there? And _when_?

Answering those questions would be a good start toward identifying their bomber and putting him in their crosshairs. But just when Falman was about to form an idea . . .

“Freeze! Don’t move!”

He did as he was told, saying aloud, “Okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Put your hands up!”

He complied. “Can I turn around?”

There was a pause. “Do it. _Slowly_.”

Falman very slowly, very carefully turned around, coming face-to-face with a young officer wearing a lieutenant’s insignias on his shoulders. That wasn’t the first thing Falman noticed. His eyes were first drawn to the gun pointed at him.

The lieutenant asked, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Damn. This was exactly what Falman had wanted to avoid. He grumbled, “I guess you’re not going to let me walk away without answering, huh?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

He sighed and said, “I have some credentials on me. They’re in my breast pocket. Can I reach for them?”

At that, the lieutenant’s brow furrowed. His fingers flexed around the grip of his pistol, but he nodded. “Go ahead.”

From his breast pocket Falman produced a small leather folder with interior lamination. He unfolded it and carefully extended his arm, holding it out for the lieutenant to inspect. One side was a simple photo of Falman, the kind taken for ID purposes. The other had a card that read as follows:

PRIME MINISTER OF AMESTRIS

CENTRAL CITY

The bearer of this document . . .

VATO FALMAN

. . . is acting with authority bestowed upon him or her by the prime minister of Amestris, as an employee of the Office of Strategic Services. Any questions in reference to him/her or their activities will be addressed to the undersigned only:

E.J. Allen, Major General, State Military

High Command, Chief of Information and Appraisal Staff

The lieutenant read it twice and swallowed hard. He handed the leather folder back to Falman and holstered his weapon. “Beg your pardon, sir, but I’m supposed to be making sure this place is secure. It’s still a crime scene, you see. The investigators don’t really come around anymore, and you looked a little suspicious creeping around the tracks like this. Can I ask what it is you’re doing?”

“Oh, nothing interesting,” Falman said. _If only you knew, kid._

“Right. Anything I can help you with?”

“I don’t think so. I’m just about finished anyway. Mind if I leave the way I came in?” He pointed down the tracks, and the lieutenant just gave him a look.

“Uh . . . sure.”

“Thanks.”

With that, Falman disappeared into the falling night, a little more embarrassed than he ought to have been. He was, after all, a simulated colonel, and he’d just been caught with his pants down by a junior officer. He also wasn’t supposed to use those credentials unless absolutely necessary, but maybe it had been. It would’ve been worse if his presence had caused a real commotion leading to a dust-up with the MPs as to why this _civilian_ was trampling their crime scene. That would no doubt get back to Mustang at the Citadel, and he’d be less than pleased with Falman ignoring the call to remain discreet at all times when on Office business.

Oh, well. A little embarrassment was better than a bureaucratic incident. Beside that, he just might’ve learned something useful tonight.

* * *

When the phone rang that evening, Alphonse Elric knew right away who it was. Not many people had his number, and of those who did, only one would have the audacity to call him so late at night, while he was grading papers.

His greeting was wearied. “Hey, brother.”

“Hey, Al! Wait a second. How’d you know it was me?”

“I had a hunch. How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“And Winry?”

“Her too.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. How about you?”

“I’m doing well.”

“And the missus?”

Al smiled fondly and rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s working late tonight. A lot of people are. You heard about what happened the other day, right?” Two weeks had passed since the last time Al had talked to his brother, which was not unusual, and their conversations usually involved a few minutes of catch-up.

“Yeah. The papers made it out to be really bad, but I think that general, Halcrow or whatever his name was, was the only one killed.”

“He had a family,” Al noted softly.

“Sure. I read about them. A wife and kids. Say, didn’t we meet him a few years ago?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure, but I think . . . remember those terrorists attacked our train, and you used alchemy to flood the car they were in with water? I think General Halcrow was the one they were after. He was lucky we were there.”

“That sounds right. I guess his luck finally ran out. Thank goodness his wife and kids weren’t with him.”

“They probably don’t feel very grateful right now.”

“Can’t say I blame them.” A quiet moment came and went as the brothers privately pondered the grief Halcrow’s wife and children must have been experiencing. “Two bombings this month. Crazy, huh?”

“Three,” Al corrected. “There was the one at the military depot down south, the one at the barracks in Ishval, and this last one.”

“Damn. I hadn’t heard about the one at the barracks. I guess Winry and the pipsqueaks have been keeping me pretty busy.”

“Things are a little tense in the city. A lot of people are talking about when the next one will come. Not if. When. I’m a little worried too.”

“Don’t sweat it, Al. You are the old ball ‘n’ chain will be fine. We all will.”

Al half-scoffed. “You sound confident.”

“Of course I’m confident. I know who runs this country. Look, I’m definitely not Sir Stache’s biggest fan, but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s surrounding himself with good people. I’ll give him credit for one thing. He actually wants to protect his people and keep them safe. I’m sure he’s got his crack team of pros working day and night to get to the bottom of this.”

Al couldn’t help laughing at the familiar jab. Mustang had tried out a pencil-thin mustache a while back, around the time of his inauguration, and his brother had just never let it go. It was immediately designated his favorite nickname for the prime minister, though he rarely got to use it.

“I guess so.”

“All right, Al. I gotta run. It’s way past the pipsqueaks’ bedtime, and I really don’t want to take a wrench to the head when Winry finds out I haven’t put them down yet. Hey, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“You too, brother.”


	4. Postscript

Monday morning brought an unwelcome surprise. Falman had suspected another bombing was in the works, as had Havoc, and now they had confirmation.

An open letter addressed to Prime Minister Roy Mustang was delivered to Central City’s largest radio station – the only station with a nationally syndicated radio program and an audience beyond the city’s walls. Listeners from the Briggs Mountains to Dublith tuned in every weekday for commentary on current events and political intrigue. Though not always accurate, it was at least respectful. Most of the time. And nothing brought in listeners like breaking news. Something like a letter from the individual responsible for setting off three bombs, killing a military general in the process. Of course, that the bombings were connected had yet to be confirmed by any official source, but people talked and had their own ideas, and the radio host was all too happy to add to it. He went in that morning fully intending to talk about how the bombings were connected, how all three had been carried out by the same malefactors, and how Mustang’s government had proven powerless to stop them.

Then the letter came.

“The purpose of this correspondence is threefold. One: to remove any doubts in the minds of the people regarding the killing of General Halcrow. I did it. My reason for doing so will become apparent before long. That is the second purpose. The third is this: to make clear my intention regarding what is to come. As of today, the Amestrian government is holding no less than five hundred political prisoners. I will provide a list of names with this correspondence. Prime Minister Mustang, I call on you to release these ten prisoners in one week’s time. If you do not, sir, I will set off another bomb and kill another Amestrian officer at a time and place of my choosing, which will remain undisclosed. Under those circumstances, following that bombing I will correspond again to give the same ultimatum, and so on until my demand is met. Release the prisoners and save the lives of your people. Fail to do so, and there will be blood. You have been warned, sir.”

The host opened his program reading the letter word for word, and thousands of Amestrians across the country woke up to the same broadcast, the same warning. _Release the prisoners or Amestrians will die._ The reading was followed by a weighty ten-second pause.

It was Mustang’s habit to listen to the radio while going about his morning routine. He was sitting in his office with a copy of the Office’s official, comprehensive assessment of the bombings in front of him. He set down his coffee and listened closely to every word of the bomber’s letter. Addressed to him, he noted.

“Damn,” he muttered.

* * *

Falman heard the reading of the letter before leaving his house that morning, and immediately it occurred to him that _this was not good_. The first item on his to-do list when he got to work would now be convening his top people to parse through the letter and its foreboding message for Mustang and the people of Amestris.

The night before he’d gone home after his trip to the train station and gotten in a little more reading before bed. He finished _On Political Bloodletting_ , in part thanks to having an empty house with no wife and kids. That was one of the only things good about Irene and the kids being stuck up north. He had a little more peace and quiet than he’d gotten used to during his Briggs service, and at least they were safe there. Who could say where the next bomb would go off? Maybe it would be in Central.

_Your job is to stop this bastard_ before _it goes off_ , Falman reminded himself.

“Sheska, thoughts?” he asked when she, Havoc, and Heymans Breda were assembled around a small conference table in a room down the hall and across from his and Havoc’s offices.

“He only takes credit for the explosion that killed Halcrow. That one he mentions specifically. I think that’s a little odd,” she said.

“You’re assuming whoever wrote this letter is a he,” Falman pointed out.

She thought it over for a second and nodded. “I suppose I am.”

“I think you’re right, but let’s not take it as though it’s a given. About the author only taking credit for the Halcrow bombing, does it effect your assessment at all?”

Sheska and her analysts had finished their report late the previous night and given it to a government courier, who ran over to the Citadel and handed it to a member of Mustang’s staff so it would be on his desk by morning. The two-day deadline had been hard, but they got it done. She was concerned the twenty pages might not reflect their best work, but Falman read a copy – one of only three - as soon as he made it in and found it to be very well done. He congratulated her and was pleased to see her eyes light up at his praise, which she promised to pass along to her people as soon as they came in.

There were three things Sheska was convinced of after a weekend of intense deliberation with her analysts. First, the bombings were connected. Aside from the timing, there was a pattern of escalation following all three. The supply depot bombing had destroyed a lot of materiel, but nobody was hurt or killed; the train station bombing produced fewer injuries than the one at the barracks, but was the only one resulting in a fatality. Such a pattern implied direction and intent. Second, the perpetrators were few in number, no more than a handful. A larger organization would aim at larger explosions, more casualties, and more terror and hysteria. Third, the perpetrators were going after military targets. The first two had been military installations, and while the train station was not, the bomb had been in Halcrow’s compartment, indicating him as the intended target. These three conclusions were Sheska’s personal, intellectual convictions and the core of the Office’s analysis.

She explained, “I can’t say for sure why the author didn’t mention the supply depot or the barracks, but whatever the reason, there’s enough evidence in the MPs’ case files to establish certain similarities between all three, such as similar blast sizes and patterns, a lack of explosive residue, and more. On the other hand, there might be something useful in that fact. If the author is responsible or involved in all the bombings, then why weren’t the first two mentioned? It could bolster his demand and make his ultimatum that much stronger if he had. Why disregard them?”

Havoc was fingering an unlit cigarette, itching to light up but prohibited from doing so by Falman in the conference room. He cleared his throat. “Y’know, it’s kinda peculiar, isn’t it? There was only an individual mentioned – the author. And look at how he referred to himself.”

Most terrorists took credit for their attacks according to their groups. The letter, however, had given only a mysterious moniker. “The Delightful One,” it was signed. A strange name to go by, more so of one’s own choosing.

“I noticed,” Falman said. “We need to get our hands on that letter.”

Havoc grunted. “From what I hear, the MPs rushed over and seized it as evidence as soon as the radio folks finished broadcasting. It’s with them now. I’d also like to have a look at it myself.”

“Looks like I’ll have to throw my weight around again.”

They reached an impasse. Sheska was standing by the analysis, and good on her, Falman thought. It was good work, and she ought to be proud. However, it conflicted with, apparently, the letter that had been read aloud to thousands of Amestrians, supposedly written by the actual bomber. “I did it,” he’d said of blowing up the train station and killing Halcrow. A bold statement, maybe unwise. Had their adversary tipped his hand? He called himself “the Delightful One,” referring to himself as an individual. And where the hell had he come up with a name like that? All Falman knew at the moment was that he wanted to read the damned letter himself. And time was not on their side. One week, no more. Then another bombing would go off.

He pulled some strings and got the MPs to produce a set of three photographic copies of the letter and send them over. They arrived around lunchtime, after which the Office’s top people reconvened.

“Y’know, the more I look at it, the more it looks like it was written by someone who knows their way around a pen and paper,” Breda observed, holding the glossy photo of the letter.

Havoc asked, “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean it looks like whoever wrote it is probably educated. To some degree, at least. Look at the handwriting. It’s smooth, almost elegant.”

“Since when do you know anything about handwriting?”

“I took a calligraphy class in grade school.”

No one knew what to say. Calligraphy didn’t fit anyone’s notion of Heymans Breda, even those who had known him for years. To them, he was the rook, the team’s lateral mover-shaker. He was stocky, brash, and loved food almost as much as he loved an honest day’s work. Maybe he was less polished than Mustang, less refined than Falman, and slower on the draw than Havoc, but he was solid and reliable to boot. He had a knack for legwork. He didn’t mind pounding the pavement to chase down leads. Why would he? Every town and city in Amestris had a hot dog stand somewhere, and one could hardly tail a mark or shadow someone suspicious on an empty stomach.

But calligraphy? None of them would have suspected Breda of studying fancy handwriting as a youngster.

“You studied calligraphy? You, Bradykins?” Havoc’s expression was comically distorted.

Breda crossed his arms and made a face. “Haven’t you heard? You’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover. Ask Falman. He reads a lot.” A second later he added, “And I told you not to call me that anymore.”

Falman leaned in. “Breda, are you saying the author’s handwriting might give us insight into who he or she is? It might help us identify them?”

“Look, I’m not promising anything. But yeah, I think we might learn something useful. I know someone who could take a look at the letter for us. Maybe.”

“This someone of yours. Who is it, and are they trustworthy?”

The Office’s chief of operations scratched the top of his head. “Guy’s a university professor. He teaches Amestrian literature, but writes about handwriting analysis on the side. He’s one of the country’s leading authorities on the subject, and he’s been trying to get his techniques adopted by the Military Police’s forensic specialists for a while. And yeah, I’d say we can trust him to keep his mouth shut if we tell him.”

Falman nodded. “Which you will. Secrecy is paramount, Breda.”

“You don’t need to tell me, boss.”

“Then I approve. Take one of the photocopies and have your contact look at it.”

* * *

The rifle was chambered for the Amestrian military’s 7.92×57-mm. cartridge and operated by a manual bolt. Its model was officially adopted in 1998, from which it derived its military designation – the M98c, “c” for “carbine.” And for a carbine, it was relatively large and cumbersome with an overall length of forty-three inches. The barrel was twenty-three. Nevertheless, it was shorter than the rifles regular infantrymen were issued. When equipped with a telescopic sight, as this one was, a soldier could take full advantage of the rifle’s effective range, which was approximately one thousand meters, making it a real marksman’s weapon. That was the role it had played over the course of its service life, and this one belonged to a real marksman.

Well, not a _man_ , but close enough.

The rifle was an extension of Captain Riza Hawkeye’s person, no less a part of her than one of her arms or legs. She had carried it through Ishval and used it often – to great effect. According to some, she had the most confirmed kills of any sniper in the military, either active or retired. Of course, Ishval had been the first conflict in Amestris’s history which saw snipers used extensively, the first conflict in which generals and battle commanders had fully appreciated the value snipers could bring to war. Riza was not quite certain whether the stories about her tally were true, and truth to tell, she was content not to know.

However horrible the war had been, she could not deny her attachment to the rifle. She had taken care of it throughout the war, cleaning it constantly to keep the dust of Ishval’s arid wasteland from jamming it. She had learned quickly not to over-lubricate it; the stuff that came with their cleaning kits only attracted dirt and debris in Ishval, which would cause malfunctions at the worst of times, which was often fatal for the young men and women behind the sights. No, she had made it her business to become intimately familiar with her rifle, learn how it worked and what made it not work, and tend to it almost like a mother tended to her child. She didn’t name her rifle like some of her fellow soldiers did theirs. (It was mostly her brothers in arms who did that; there was something about men that made them name their prized possessions.) But she was sentimental toward her rifle. As she took care of it over the years, it took care of her in return. And not just in Ishval. She’d shot more than mere humans with her rifle over the years. The cartridge it used was decidedly less effective against homunculi, but it had probably saved her life in her encounters with them anyway.

Riza had put so many rounds through her rifle in the time she’d had it that she could close her eyes and see the pattern of the beechwood grain. She could feel the trigger and knew exactly how much pressure was needed and where the break was.

BANG!

She sent another bullet downrange at seven hundred meters per second. The ping of a 180-grain projectile smacking against a steel target was heard immediately, even as the audible report of the rifle faded.

They were at the east-facing range with the setting sun behind them. With good visibility, a hundred-meter shot was nothing for Riza.

“There you go again, being perfect.” Rebecca Catalina sighed, looking through a pair of binoculars. “Hit, dead center. I don’t think you’ve missed a single shot so far.”

“I try to make a habit of hitting what I’m aiming at,” Riza said.

“Yeah, yeah. Everyone misses. You’ve said so yourself. But not you, not tonight. Honestly, it’s disgusting. I hate how perfect you are.”

When Rebecca had called Riza the day before and mentioned getting together for a little girls’ night out, the last thing Riza would have guessed was that she’d want to hit the range. Despite her military service, it was not often that Rebecca honed her martial skills. Riza wasn’t even sure when was the last time she’d fired a gun before tonight. But going to the range together made things easy for Riza. She didn’t even have to leave work after going off-duty at five. All she had to do was talk to her commander and let him know she and her friend wanted to use the hundred-meter range for a couple hours, and would that be all right? It was, of course. Riza’s elite status was second to her consistently excellent performance and work ethic in regard to making her one of her commander’s favorite officers and the single best instructor currently serving.

So instead of having to go home, change out of her uniform into something suitable for a night out, and decide on where to meet, Riza was able to get a head start on tomorrow’s paperwork while waiting for Rebecca to show up. She did have to call home to make sure nobody would miss her, and Black Hayate would anyway, but it was no bother.

They were like sisters, Riza and Rebecca. They’d served together, fought together, and now they spent time together when they could, though that was sadly less often than they would have liked. Oh, well. That was life, and life alone was something they were both grateful for.

Yet even for as long as they had known each other, some things never changed, and one of those things was Riza’s total inability to take a compliment.

She pulled open the bolt on her rifle and reached for another box of ammo to reload. She said, “I am far from perfect.”

Rebecca scoffed. “Not according to your darling hubby.”

“He’s hardly unbiased.”

“Whatever. He thinks the world of you, and its sickeningly sweet.”

Riza smiled. “He _is_ a sweetheart.”

“I was going to ask how things are going with you two, but I guess I don’t need to.”

“They’re good. Very good.”

“I see married life agrees with you.”

That made Riza pause. She stopped in the middle of pushing cartridges into the internal magazine and glanced at her friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” Rebecca smirked. She set the binoculars aside and said, “I noticed you grew your hair out again, though.”

“So?” The last round went in, and Riza closed the bolt, chambering it.

“I know you like it better short. C’mon. What did he say to convince you not to cut it? Did he tell you how _pretty_ you look?” A girlish giggle followed.

Riza frowned. At the moment, she was wearing her blonde, shoulder-length hair in her usual bird of prey-styled updo to conform to the military’s uniform manual. She _had_ grown it out, but there was something mildly offensive about Rebecca’s comment. What was so funny about the idea of her being told she looked pretty? So she asked, “What’s so funny?” and made no effort to hide her indignance.

The giggle turned into a snort. “Nothing. I’m happy for you, Riza. You deserve it.”

This time Riza scoffed. She said quietly, “No, I don’t.”

“For goodness’s sake, are you going to spend the rest of your life torturing yourself because of your past? Because of what happened in the war? I was there too, remember? You didn’t enjoy it, but you did what you had to do. You followed orders and fought to protect the person to your right and left. That’s all you could do.”

Riza pulled away from the rifle. “I could have not been stupid and followed my father’s apprentice to the battlefield, hoping he would fall in love with me.”

“Everyone makes mistakes when they’re young. We were all stupid kids once.”

“Now you sound like my husband.”

“Then start believing him. Would he lie to you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s settled. Now.” Rebecca grinned. “You promised you’d show me the bottle trick for old time’s sake.”

It made Riza feel a little like a circus performer, but she relented. She had told Rebecca she would do it. A hundred meters out, next to where the steel targets were posted, an empty glass bottle sat on its side, with the neck facing toward where they were positioned. It was on a table exactly level with the bench they were shooting from. This trick was one Riza had learned when she and Rebecca had gone through the Amestrian military academy together. She’d demonstrated such skill with her rifle that her platoon’s marksmanship instructor had set up a special challenge just for her. All these years later, Riza was still able to replicate the results with a little concentration.

At this range, wind was no factor. Neither was elevation. Muzzle velocity would offset gravity. Riza lowered her head and peered through the optic.

“Wait! You gotta do it right. Offhand, not from the bench,” Rebecca chided.

Riza sighed. Fine. She stood up, taking her rifle with her, and moving in front of the bench. When crouched, she held the rifle at almost the same height it would have been. She wrapped the leather sling around her left forearm for added support. That wasn’t technically “offhand,” but Rebecca said nothing.

She laid the pad of her finger on the trigger, took a deep breath, let it all out, and in the briefest of moments when her whole body was still, before she took another . . .

A few pounds of pressure, and . . .

BANG!

Rebecca used the binoculars to see the whole thing, rapt. The bullet went exactly where it was supposed to, traveling down the neck, through the inside of the bottle, and exploding out the bottom of it.

She whooped. “There ya go! The undefeated Hawk’s Eye wins again! No bottle stands a chance!”

Riza mock groaned. “Goodness, Havoc is rubbing off on you.”

“I pity the fool who winds up in your crosshairs, girl.”

It was enough shooting for one day. Riza stood and shook her head ruefully. “With any luck, no fool ever will.”

* * *

That night, when Riza did go home, she took time to think about what Rebecca had said. A lot of good people never made it out of Ishval, people on both sides. And she had been responsible for a number of them losing their lives on the battlefield. Did it still bother her, all these years later? It did. Should it? Those closest to her didn’t think so.

She and Rebecca went their separate ways that night and promised they’d see each other again soon. There was no telling how long that would be since Rebecca lived in Central now, but that would never get in the way of their friendship.

“See you soon. Don’t stay up too late tossing the sheets.”

“Becca!” Riza went wide-eyed. Maybe she could stand to go a little longer without seeing her friend.

At least their killing days were behind them.


	5. A Glimpse of the Bigger Picture

With every hour that passed, it became clearer to Falman that the Office was not an investigatory body by design. When Mustang had signed the order to set them up, the idea had been to create a department that would collect and collate intelligence on internal and external threats to Amestrian security and advise the prime minister based on that. The Office’s people were not detectives. They were spies. They did not rush to crime scenes, dust for fingerprints, interview witnesses, or any of the things detectives did for a living. It was not part of their training. Their talents lied elsewhere. The subtle art of espionage was the calling they shared and the game they played, and in that, they served their country well.

Breda was probably the best “investigator” in the Office’s employ. He was sharper than his appearance might suggest, something his co-workers knew based on his service under Colonel Mustang and his actions leading up to the Promised Day, and he understood what made people tick. It was largely his hard work and patience that had produced the Office’s network of agents across Amestris. Because of him, they had sources and contacts able to glean sensitive information, service drops, and manage safe houses. The Office had solid capabilities and reach, and it was largely thanks to Breda putting in long nights and busting his hump running surveillance on foot and behind the wheel, hustling from city to city and town to town, sometimes shuttling between provinces to handle meets on short notice.

Since the latest bombing, the Office had surveyed its agents to see if any of them knew something that might lead to those responsible. That yielded little, a couple bits and pieces, but nothing that could really be called a “lead.” But tapping their clandestine sources for information was their only avenue of investigation. Beside that, they were as short on options as they were on time.

And the clock was ticking. Every hour that went by brought them closer to the Delightful One’s deadline, and failing to meet it would certainly result in something not delightful.

Falman’s concern that they might not make it was deepening. He’d hardly ever felt so useless, stuck behind this damn desk and unable to actually _do_ anything. But he knew it wasn’t his place. He was the Office’s number one, not a street man, and he was better with facts and figures than dealing with the nitty gritty. Behind his desk was where he belonged for the time being.

He was grateful for the distraction when Sheska came barging in, clutching an old book with a cracked spine and yellowed pages. There was a title in gold font on the cover, but her arms kept him from reading it. Not that it would be a problem. “Mister Falman, take a look at this.”

She looked as though she’d just ran a marathon, eyes wide as she fidgeted in place. She threw down the book on the desktop in front of him.

“Ishvalan scripture?”

“When I worked at the library a while back, I spent a lot of time reading.”

“I’m aware. It’s why you lost your job there.”

Sheska frowned. “Yes, well . . . it worked out in the end. I was able to help the Elric brothers with what I remembered. I recreated the entirety of Doctor Marcoh’s notes on human transmutation for them. And I think I might be able to help find out who the bomber is, or the author of the letter at least.”

“Okay.”

“I read the letter a couple more times yesterday, and I noticed something about it was familiar. This morning I stopped by another library on the way in, the one on Third Street. I took out this book. It’s a collection of passages written by one of Ishval’s lesser prophets, considered holy and divinely inspired by his followers and contemporary adherents.” She opened the book to a page she had bookmarked and pointed. “Look at this. This quote here.”

Falman’s eyes followed her index finger. He read aloud, “Delightful is he who casts terror in the hearts of the unbelievers, for those who believe fight for the cause of Ishvala, and those who disbelieve fight for the cause of the adversary. As for those who disbelieve, who reject faith in Ishvala, the god of earth, they will be punished with agony in this life and the hereafter, and the god of earth will delight in he who punishes them.”

He thought, _He who casts terror is a terrorist, and he is also delightful, according to this. That’s our guy._

“I think the author and the bomber are one and the same, and what’s more, I think he’s Ishvalan,” she declared.

“It’s thin, Sheska.”

“Come on, Mister Falman. Think about it. The author probably chose this name for himself. It’s a reference to Ishvalan scripture, itself authored by a militant prophet. One of the prisoners on the list is Ishvalan, and the bomber’s only going after the military. There’s gotta be an Ishvalan connection!”

Her motor mouth was kicking in. She was excited about this supposed connection, and he wanted to be excited with her. At this point, he was willing to look into any aspect of the explosions they could think of. Anything that might give them a leg up.

Falman sighed. “It’s good work. I’m impressed.”

“You believe me?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m not sure what to believe yet. Give me time to think it over, okay? Let me hold onto this book if I can. I’ll give it back soon.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

As she turned to leave, Falman said, “And on your way out, if you see Havoc in his office, would you let him know I want to see him as soon as he has a minute.”

“Of course.”

She closed the door behind her, and Falman looked over the open book in front of him. It was old, older than his copy of _On Political Bloodletting_. The print was crude, probably done using an antique press. Then again, how would he know? The Ishvalans had done all their writing by hand until about ten years ago. But the paper stock was different too. He was surprised Sheska had been able to find something like this in an Amestrian library.

A minute later, the door opened, and Havoc came in. “What’s up?”

“We might have a problem.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Falman spun the book around and tapped the page. “Read this.”

Havoc picked it up and took a minute to read the passage Falman’s finger had pointed out. “Damn. It’s what we were afraid of.”

“What do you think the odds are that this is just a coincidence, and the lunatic running around and blowing stuff up isn’t actually Ishvalan?”

“Knowing us, not good. This is probably exactly what it looks like.”

“Damn.”

“You know you’re gonna have to take this to the colonel.”

 _That_ was not going to be fun. With the receipt of the Delightful One’s letter and the issuance of the deadline, Mustang would want updates on how things were going. Falman hadn’t gotten the call yet, but he knew it was coming. He ought to get ahead of it and just contact Mustang himself. The only problem was he hardly had anything worthwhile to show the prime minister, except for a potential lead that had every possibility of turning into a political bombshell if it panned out.

Falman groaned. “Going to the colonel is exactly what I’m not looking forward to.”

“Can’t blame you. Good luck.”

* * *

The operators at the Central Command Exchange knew to put Falman through when he called. If the prime minister was in the building, then he could usually get him on the phone. So he called before leaving work around five and scheduled a quick meeting with the man who ran the country. He walked home, hopped in the car, and drove to the Citadel. The Regiment guards rifled through his briefcase to make sure he wasn’t smuggling a bomb in – the irony! – and handed it back before admitting him.

He made his way to the prime minister’s office and found Mustang sitting at his desk with fistfuls of his own black hair, stooped over a stack of papers.

“I can’t believe I spent half my adult life wanting this job. Running this country is a pain in the ass.” Mustang looked up. “Have you come up with something?”

Falman sighed. “You could say that. I have something to show you.”

He reached into his briefcase and took out the book. Then he opened it to the right page, came over, and placed it on Mustang’s desk on top of the stack of papers.

Mustang took the book, and he scanned down the page to the passage Falman indicated with his finger. He started reading. Several seconds later, he said, “Please tell me this is an elaborate hoax.”

“It’s not. Ishvalan scripture. The original author is a militant prophet from two centuries ago.”

“What are the chances this is misdirection on the part of the letter’s author? Maybe someone with academic knowledge of the Ishvalan religion picked an alias based on this passage intentionally, to deceive us, throw us off his scent.”

“I won’t rule it out, but I don’t think so.” Falman shook his head. “From what I understand, this passage comes from a pretty obscure text. Even some Ishvalans aren’t familiar with it. And there are other factors.”

“Such as?”

“You read our report. The bomber obviously has a bone to pick with the military. That makes him being Ishvalan a safe bet.”

“Right. One of the prisoners he wants released is also Ishvalan.”

“And there’s that, yeah.”

There were ten names on the list of political prisoners the Delightful One was demanding released. Only one was Ishvalan, a refugee who’d migrated to the Southern Province and murdered a family there. He was arrested by the Military Police two days later, still covered in the blood of the young husband and wife. During his interrogation, he screamed on and on about how Amestris had butchered his people, and he’d kill as many Amestrians as he could get his hands on if they let him go. He was held on terrorism-related charges, eventually convicted, and sent to prison. The others were assorted malefactors. Deserters from the military, agitators, separatists, and so on. No Ishvalans among them, just the one.

Mustang asked, “How the hell did you come up with this, anyway?”

“I didn’t really. Sheska did, and I might as well bring this up now, before I forget.” Part of Falman thought he was crazy to think about pushing this issue now, but it couldn’t hurt to state the request. “When all is said and done with this mission, I want a pay raise for her, and I don’t want the bean counters arguing with me over it. In the past week, she’s proven herself as a leader and analyst three times over. It’s because of her and her team that report on your desk came out as well as it did.”

“Hughes was the one who recruited her, right? Before the Promised Day?”

“Uh-huh. He also said she was good at what she did.”

The mention of Maes Hughes, one of Mustang’s closest friends long deceased, cast a pall over the room and brought the conversation to a screeching halt. Mustang sat back in his chair, and his eyes glazed over in a thousand-yard stare. With a quiet sigh, he said, “Another good call, old friend. You’re still helping me out even to this day.”

Falman knew better than to say anything.

“All right, Falman. When you submit the paperwork for her, I’ll make sure it goes through. Sheska will get her raise.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mustang closed the book. “I don’t need to tell you how big a problem it is if the bomber is Ishvalan, do I?”

“No. I realize it’s problematic.”

“It’s more than problematic. It could be disastrous. The reconstruction in Ishval is still underway, and relations between Amestris and Ishval are strained. We’ve made a lot of progress, but there’s still a long way to go before the past is buried. If that will ever happen. Now we find out this son of a bitch is most likely one of them.” Mustang stood and went to the window behind his desk. He leaned against the frame and looked outside. It was starting to rain. “If the Military Police make the connection, and they will at some point, then they’ll demand I authorize a full sweep in Ishval, rounding up persons of interest in other cases, ransacking houses, the works. And if that happens . . . ”

“Scar won’t take it well,” Falman said, running with the thought. “He’ll consider it oppressive and discriminatory.”

“Right. It’ll set us back months, maybe a year or more. Everything we’ve worked so hard to accomplish will be thrown out. On the other hand, if this madman manages to set off another bomb, there _will_ be a public outcry, and I might not have a choice in the matter. To appease the people, I could be forced to let the MPs have their way. You see my predicament?”

“Clearly. It’s a hell of a problem.”

Mustang glanced over his shoulder. “Tell me you can make it go away.”

“We’ll have to find out the bastard’s identity first.”

“Have you gotten anywhere with that?”

Shrugging, Falman said, “Not yet, but we’re doing our best. If Sheska’s right and the bomber is Ishvalan, then that’s a lead. But we’ll need the Ishvalans’ help to come up with a name or face. We also have Breda working on another angle. I’m not convinced it’ll be the big break we need, but it could prove useful in some way.”

“You want to reach out to Scar, is that it?”

“I think we’ll have to sooner or later. Sooner would probably be better, before the situation gets any worse.”

The sound of rain hitting the thick panes of glass filled the room. They both kept quiet for several long seconds. Mustang finally conceded, “Very well. But Falman . . . be discreet. It can’t get out that we’re reaching out to the Ishvalans. If it does, people will figure out why soon enough.”

With a nod, Falman affirmed, “We’re spies, sir. Secrets are our top commodity.”

“Anything else for me?”

“Yeah. I guess you don’t intend to release the prisoners.”

That observation caused Mustang to stand upright and turn to face Falman, his intelligence man, and lock eyes with him with a steely resolve hardening his expression. “You’ve been my subordinate for how long, Falman? Do you really think I’d negotiate with a terrorist?”


	6. Dangerous Liaison

Breda’s hotel room was a little on the dingy side, but clean enough. He did his best to keep travel expenses down when working abroad, which was also good for discretion. Instead of getting the nicest accommodations in the biggest hotel, he went for smaller places that were out of the way, where no one paid attention to who was coming and going. A place like that was somewhere he could blend in and be just another traveling salesman, adjuster, or what have you. Nobody would bother him, and nobody would remember him after he left. Unless he came back before long. That was why you had to have an eye for such places, to know where to find them, and remember where you’d been and when.

For all those reasons, Falman appreciated his top operator. Breda’s approach to fieldwork helped keep things under-budget, and that made life much easier for him and Havoc – mostly him. Havoc loathed budgetary issues and avoided getting involved as much as he could.

The handwriting expert was in East City, so Breda had gone out two days earlier to meet with him in person and show him the photocopy of the letter. It took a little while to drive from Central to East, and Breda had arrived in the city later than he would have liked. After close of business, in any case. He knew he’d have to wait until the following day to meet his contact, so he grabbed a hotel room in an area that was mostly commercial and laid up for the night. He _did_ have dinner at a place down the street before retiring to his room, of course. Driving for hours at a time left a man hungry and in desperate need of sustenance.

Good food was Breda’s one operational expense that probably merited a little more scrutiny from their accountant back in Central, but Falman was willing to overlook it.

“You have the photocopy on you, right?” Falman asked. He was sitting at a small desk with chipped varnish and a drawer that stuck half-open, with the chair facing the bed. Breda was lying on his back.

“Are you kidding? It’s right there in the briefcase, which is locked, by the way. Hasn’t left my sight since I left the Office. Nobody’s laid eyes on it except for me and my guy.”

“What did he say?”

Breda threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He picked up the heavy leather briefcase and brought it to the desk. Dialing in the combination, he opened it and took out three-page document before handing it to Falman. “See for yourself. It’s three pages, but I can break it down for you in less time than it’ll take to read. According to my guy, the author’s handwriting indicates education at a state-run boarding school. That he was pretty adamant about. He also claims the author is around thirty-five to fifty years of age, but I question that. His reasoning has to do with the style of the signature, which I think is sketchy.”

Falman needed only to read the first paragraph of the expert’s three-page analysis to conclude that Breda’s summary was sufficient. Nevertheless, he looked up and asked, “Can I hold onto this?”

“Sure. I was going to head back to Central soon anyway.”

“Maybe you should wait a bit. A day or two.”

“Why’s that? And you still haven’t told me why you came all this way to East just to see about the handwriting analysis.”

“It’s not just that,” Falman said. He spent the next five minutes explaining the possible Ishvalan connection Sheska had unearthed, repeating the conversation he’d had with Mustang. Afterward, he added, “I’ll be on my way to Ishval to meet Scar shortly. I want to discuss the situation with him and see if he and his people can help.”

Breda scoffed. “Or to see if he’s _willing_ to help.”

“Or that, but I really hope he is. Our best chance to keep this all from turning into a complete disaster is neutralizing the Delightful One. If we take him out one way or another, then hopefully it’ll prevent further bombings, but the likelihood of us figuring out who he is – _if_ he’s really Ishvalan – without Scar’s assistance . . . I’d say slim to none.”

Crossing his arms, Breda grunted. “I’ve been doing my best, but recruiting in Ishval is difficult. Halcrow didn’t want any intelligence officers among his staff, and Mustang supported him on that. We have no operational presence in the region. Most of our agents are Amestrian, spread across the provinces.”

“It’s not your fault. The Office has only been around for a number of months, and we knew from the beginning Ishval would be a hard target for collection. You’ve done good work, Breda.”

“If I have, then why are we short on intel at a time when we need it the most?”

“It’s a process. Networks aren’t built overnight. It takes time to recruit agents.”

Breda plopped himself on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms. He glanced sideways to avoid looking Falman in the eye. “Facts are facts, boss, and the fact is I’ve been at it for a while, and all our assets put together can’t collect intelligence on whoever it is that’s blowing things up. Deadline’s coming up fast, and we’re no better off than we were to start with.”

“That’s not true.” Falman held up the handwriting analysis. “We know the bomber is probably Ishvalan, and this could be an important piece of the puzzle. How many Ishvalans still alive do you think are state-educated?”

Grunting again, Breda answered, “I dunno. Not many, I guess.”

“No. Not many.”

“When are you going to Ishval?”

“As soon as we’re done here. You have anything else for me?”

“Not right now. What do you want me to do?”

Falman thought it over for a second. “Stay here tonight. Depending on how things go with Scar, I’ll either give you the word to head back to Central by tomorrow morning or stick around in East City. We might have more work to do out here.”

“Got it.”

With the handwriting analysis transferred to his briefcase, Falman left the hotel thinking he was a lucky man to have skilled, talented pros like Havoc, Breda, and Sheska working for him. More so to have such a good rapport with most of them. Sheska was the newcomer, so to speak, having never worked with them in their heyday, but she fit in nicely. She had a role to play just like the rest of them. He could bounce ideas off Havoc and make plans, rely on Breda to pull them off, and Sheska was there to make sense of everything else.

But for all that, they were still barely closer to identifying the Delightful One in time to stop him from setting off another bomb. Could they do it?

Hopefully Scar would come through for them.

* * *

The seat of power in Ishvalan society was a large, but unassuming guest house at a major crossroads on the route most people took when traveling to Ishval. The road to Ishval wound its way along a fifty-meter-deep ravine and over a rocky hill. Upon cresting that hill, travelers could feast their eyes upon the expanse of the white wastes of Ishval, where few crops could survive and the people led harsh lives and worshiped the “god of earth” in spite of their surroundings. Not that there were many travelers heading to Ishval. Unsurprisingly, this war-ravaged corner of Amestris was not a popular spot for tourists. The only Amestrians who came through were soldiers or humanitarian workers, and of the latter, only the most hardy and dedicated, the ones not afraid of being strung up and put to death by mobs of locals for their bones to be bleached by the angry, glaring sun.

In fairness, maybe animosity between the Amestrians and their religious neighbors wasn’t quite so sever lately. The reconstruction, which was equally massive and expensive, probably had something to do with that. The Amestrian government under Prime Minister Mustang was dumping a lot of money into rebuilding much of what had been destroyed in the war. Small mountains of cash had been paid to hire companies of carpenters, masons, machinists, and other workmen to come in and put together again whole towns and villages. The Ishvalans were adamant that they would handle the places of worship themselves, but were happy to accept Amestrian materials to do so. But not just buildings had been lost to the fighting. Many families were without loved ones, many children without parents to love and raise them. Schools were set up to provide free education to oprhans and others similarly dispossessed.

Mustang would not have been happy to know that the head of the Office was visiting still-volatile Ishval unguarded. Things had calmed down, certainly, but nothing was impossible. At least Falman was no fool; he was armed, but had no illusions about his abilities with a pistol. With luck, he would have no use of it.

The guest house was set on a sizeable tract of land on the side of the road. Falman pulled over and went inside, greeted immediately by the overpowering scent of myriad herbs and spices. The front room was massive, taking up most of the guest house’s interior, and lined up in a number of long rows were anywhere from a hundred to two hundred Ishvalan men, women, and children. They sat cross-legged on the floor side by side with trays of food in front of them, eating, talking, and laughing. One might not have known that these were the survivors of a years-long, brutal civil war based on the way they went about dining with one another. There was a sense of kinship among everyone inside, many of whom could not have known one another personally. Yet here they were, enjoying fellowship as though they’d lived their whole lives together. It struck Falman as nothing short of astounding given the amount of horror the region had seen.

Then it struck him that he was the only Amestrian in sight. Everyone around him had the tanned complexion of those reared under the Ishvalan sun, the white hair, the red eyes. Many wore rags as clothes and had tattoos. Falman made his way around the throngs of people feasting on the floor, attracting a few curious glances, but nothing in the way of ire. Subtle contempt, perhaps, but no one said anything to him.

He at least had had the foresight to call ahead and make sure his arrival would not be a surprise. He approached an Ishvalan man who appeared to be in charge, directing servants this way and that with trays of thin, flat bread and various spreads. The man had to be at least sixty.

“Excuse me, sir. Is the chief here? He should be expecting me. I’m Vato Falman.”

The man queried him with a raised eyebrow. “I see. Are you military?”

“No, sir.”

“Sure, sure. But you have the look of a military man, fancy coat or no.”

“I _was_ in the military, but I’m not anymore. I’m retired.”

“Sure, but are you sure you’re not here to carry out a mission? Maybe you come wearing a fancy coat to trick us. Maybe you’re really here to drive a knife in the chief’s gut. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. I don’t think you’d make it out of his room alive if you tried something like that.”

Falman balked. “No, nothing like that. Is Lieutenant Colonel Miles here? He knows who I am. I spoke to him this morning. He knows I need to speak to the chief.”

The man laughed mirthlessly. “Figures you would know Miles. Sure, he’s here. Maybe I’ll take you to him.”

Aware that he was probably having his leg pulled, Falman consented to the man’s noncommittal, gently biting responses. Not that he had a choice. This was Ishval, and he couldn’t just show up and wave around his special credentials and expect everyone to let him have his way. That would get him nowhere in this place.

For five minutes the man stood in the corner of the front room, calling out to dashing servants where more food was needed. In the brief span of time that Falman had been inside, several more Ishvalans had come in, and a few had left. The newcomers found places on the floor and started chatting with the people around them. Most of them only had to wait less than a minute, and a tray of food would be brought out to them by a smiling servant. The guests would invariably nod and smile, thanking the servant before digging in. No money changed hands.

“Know what this place is, Amestrian?” the man asked. “This guest house feeds maybe a thousand people a day, maybe more, maybe less. Not like it is in your cities. We don’t take money from starving people. We give and expect nothing in return. It is expected of us that we might be live long and prosper.”

Sure, Falman knew about guest houses like this one. He’d read plenty about Ishvalan culture and religion, but he’d never seen a place like this with his own eyes. In fact, he’d never been to Ishval before today. He was lucky enough to have found his way without getting lost. The guest house was huge, though, and it would have been pretty hard to miss. “How is it you’re able to feed so many people daily? I didn’t think so much progress had been made with regard to restoring agriculture. So many mouths to feed must be a huge burden.”

“Ah, that’s the secret.” The man grinned. “Sometimes these people, they come and offer gifts in return. Sometimes money, sometimes trinkets. Sometimes what they bring to us is worth lots, but sometimes it’s not. Either way, everything is accepted and appreciated. Ishvala will provide all that we need to honor him with our hospitality here. Come with me, retired military man. Let us see if we can find Miles.”

The man led Falman through a small warren of back rooms and a long, narrow kitchen equipped with mud brick ovens and jam-packed with bustling cooks. He passed one stirring a massive pot of what Falman recognized as “kabuli,” a variety of bean native to the region. It smelled delicious, and his stomach made its displeasure known. He only now realized that he hadn’t eaten since leaving Central.

They came to a room with a hearth and a roaring fire, in front of which sat a hulking figure that Falman recognized right away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Standing nearby was a man in a sleeveless shirt with his back to Falman and his guide. Another Ishvalan, judging by the hair.

“Hey, Miles. This military man here says his name is Vato Falman. He also says he’s retired. You know him?”

The man with his back to them turned and revealed himself. Sure enough, it was the same officer Falman had gotten to know up north. Miles appraised him briefly and nodded. “I know him. He is expected. Leave us, my friend. We need to speak privately.

“Sure, sure.”

Unlike Falman, Miles was not retired. He was still actively serving in the military, a lieutenant colonel now, though the absence of a uniform and obvious Ishvalan features might have fooled a stranger. He did not move from his spot, instead gesturing for Falman to stay where he was. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. The only sound was the distant din of the front room and the crackling of the fire.

“I am finished,” came the deep voice of the massive man sitting in front of the hearth. His figure unfurled itself and stood. He wore the robes of a Ishvalan religious leader and his spiky hair in a short ponytail, with the sides shaved. When he faced Falman directly, his face displayed the familiar scar that had been his namesake for some time. Scar said, “I am required to bid you welcome to Ishval, Mister Falman, though I cannot say it is good to see you. I suspect I know what it is you are here to discuss.”

“You understand I have no choice in coming.”

Scar only nodded. “Every guest that sets foot in this place is under my protection and hospitality. Let us eat first and discuss what brings you here afterward. Miles, get us food from the kitchen.”

“Of course.”

Minutes later, Falman, Scar, and Miles were sitting as the guests in the front room, cross-legged on the floor. Instead of side-by-side, they sat in a triagle on a rug in the middle of the room. Falman took of his coat and set it neatly folded beside him. His pistol was inside one of his deep pockets, and he was happy to leave it there, out of his reach. He trusted Scar enough to believe what he said about hospitality. Ishvalan culture prized it, and their religion demanded that once under a man’s protection, to allow harm to come to a protected person was anathema. He was safe here. For now. Scar, for his part, did not have quite the same look that he had years ago, when he was known mostly as a serial murderer. He was a man of faith now, not a man of violence, or so it was said. Under his leadership, violence in Ishval had been curtailed significantly, but Scar was one of a handful of chiefs that had authority in this land, and not all of his peers respected the Amestrians’ efforts to establish peace for both sides.

Trays were brought to them. Falman indulged himself and broke off a piece of the thin, flat bread they’d been baking in huge quantities in the kitchen and scooped up a bit of mashed kabuli. It tasted wonderful, but with how hungry he was, almost anything would. Miles and Scar ate in silence. No small talk was exchanged. It wasn’t what they were gathered for. That being the case, eating didn’t take long.

“You’re here to discuss the acts of terrorism being perpetrated against your people, aren’t you?” Scar asked bluntly. After receiving Falman as his guest, his demeanor loosened if only a bit.

“I am.”

“I hear you work for the Flame Alchemist still.”

Some things never changed, sadly. Mustang had been a colonel, a general, and now the prime minister. But in Ishval, he would always be remembered as the man who’d razed whole villages and all their people with a single snap of his fingers. All the money in Amestris and the most benevolent attitude toward the region would never wipe away his charred reputation here. Falman nodded. “More or less.”

“But you’re not with the military anymore.”

“No. I’m retired, but I work for the government.”

Scar scoffed as though having no time for such nonsense. “What is it you do then?”

“I take information, process it into reports, and advise the colonel . . . I mean, the prime minister based on those reports.” It was evasive, but true. Mostly.

“So it’s information you’re looking for.”

“Specific information, yes. The prime minister wants me to help the authorities identify the individual who wrote the letter that was read on the radio several days ago. It’s believed this is the same individual responsible for setting off the bombs.”

“The letter made that clear.”

“If whoever wrote it was being truthful, which appears to be the case. Based on the name the author chose for himself, it’s believed that the author-slash-bomber is Ishvalan. He calls himself ‘the Delightful One,’ which is apparently a reference to the writing of a militant prophet of Ishvala. It is imperative that further bombings are prevented, and to that end, the bomber must be found and stopped. We need to know who he is and where to find him. I’m hoping you can help.”

Having stated his initial request as briefly and directly as he could, Falman wondered what Scar’s response would be. He hardly knew the man, and what he did know about Scar left him feeling less than optimistic about receiving his help. This was the same man who’d killed the man and woman who had nursed him back to health after the injuries he sustained in the war, and he’d done so without remorse, along with a number of powerful alchemists. Violence was his creed, his way of life. And yet he’d renounced his past life. That was what Falman had heard, and there was enough to suggest that it was true. But Scar was also a survivor of an unjust war, alternatively referred to as “the Ishvalan Civil War” and, perhaps more accurately, “the Ishvalan War of Extermination.” It had been King Bradley’s attempt at genocide against the Ishvalan people to achieve the ends of his Father, and it had been equally terrible and efficient. Only thirty percent of the Ishvalan population had survived, and birth rates were low among survivors. Scar’s people had been just short of eradicated, and he would have been justified in lecturing Falman on the audacity of coming here to request help to stop a man from killing what . . . a dozen here and there? More? Less? The longer the silence dragged on and the more Falman thought about it, the less he expected any help from the men sitting with him in the warmth and safety of the fire nearby. Maybe Miles could be expected to put in a good word, but even he could not order Scar to do anything.

“The actions of this man, whoever he is,” Scar began, “are abhorrent in the eyes of Ishvala, the god of earth.”

Falman breathed a sigh of relief.

“Still, I have reservations.”

Oh, boy.

The Ishvalan chief asked, “What is it you plan to do with him once he is caught?”

Miles’s eyes locked on Falman. He wanted an answer to this question every bit as much as the one who’d asked it.

A few seconds later, having considered his answer momentarily, Falman said, “It’s not my say. My job is information. The prime minister wants me to come up with a name and, if possible, to help find the man.”

“Do not think I’m a fool, Mister Falman. You’re a spy. We both know it, and to deny it is foolish. Your role in this endeavor is not simply to provide the Flame Alchemist the identity of the terrorist. You were one of his special cohorts. He trusts you unlike any of his other advisors. He could ask any of them to track down the terrorist, but only you would he go to if he wanted something _handled_.”

Damn. This wasn’t good. He _knew_. Falman pursed his lips. How could he get around this?

Scar issued a demand of his own: “Tell me the truth. Your mission is to kill the man known as the Delightful One, isn’t it?”

Be he a man of action or a man of faith, Scar was no man’s fool. Having Miles around had to help. Officially he was a liaison between the Amestrian military and the Ishvalans, uniquely suited to such a role on account of his ancestry, and having an Amestrian military officer could offer useful insight to either side that might smooth negotiations. Some would ask whose side Miles was really on, but Falman knew better. Miles was an accomplished officer with an impeccable service record, and they respected on another. Still, he knew Miles was advising Scar concerning Amestrian politics and probably sharing a little more than he ought to according to secrecy regs.

“I can’t speak to that, Scar. My mission is to help the government prevent more bombings. However the prime minister decides to deal with the individual responsible is out of my hands.”

“I see.” Scar closed his eyes. “Then I won’t be able to help you.”

“Why not?”

“The war is over. Killing Amestrians is no longer a matter of self-preservation, thereby making the Delightful One nothing more than a terrorist. I have no desire to see him kill more people. That said, Ishvalans live by a different set of laws than Amestrians. According to Ishvala’s law, this man must be brought to justice and tried in a court before the faithful. To hunt him down with the intention of killing him like a dog is unacceptable.”

“You hunted down state alchemists, including Edward Elric, who had nothing to do with the war, and killed many of them like dogs.” Falman pointed at Scar. “You tell me. Was _that_ unacceptable?”

For a second, he was sure Scar was going to reach over and alchemically deconstruct his face. But the flash of anger was exactly that, and it was gone from Scar’s eyes as quickly as it came. “Yes. It was.”

Falman pulled back.

“My perspective was warped, and what I did was wrong. Killing state alchemists was not the solution to my problem. I needed to grieve, but I put away my grief in favor of wrath – and was nearly destroyed for it. I should have done what the Flame Alchemist did in that tunnel.” Scar went on, “No matter. My personal experience is not influencing my decision. My decision is based on the will of Ishvala. The man who claims the name of ‘the Delightful One’ must be tried in a religious court by qualified elders. I will not partake in assassination.”

“I urge you to reconsider, Scar. The next bombing is imminent, and if this terrorist isn’t stopped, the situation will get far worse before it gets better. For all our people.”

The flash of anger returned. “Is that a threat?”

Falman shook his head. “No. It’s what I fear, and what I’m trying to prevent.”

Five minutes later, he had gathered his personal effects – his coat and pistol – and withdrawn from the guest house with his greatest concern amplified tenfold. How in the world were they going to stop the next bomb from going off without the help of the Ishvalans?


End file.
